


The Ruins We Build Together

by dirthara_mama



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Dalish Elves, F/M, Ficlet Collection, I'm moving things over from Tumblr, Non-Chronological, Post-Trespasser, Pre-Trespasser, So these chapters will be individual works, context given as needed, occasional smut, prompts
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-12-17
Updated: 2018-12-16
Packaged: 2019-09-20 19:49:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 3,418
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17028906
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dirthara_mama/pseuds/dirthara_mama
Summary: Shorts about Ayelet Lavellan's experiences before, during, and after the Inquisition, and with Solas through it all.





	1. There is No Wind Here

**Author's Note:**

> This was a response to an anonymous prompt from Tumblr, but I thought it was deserving of this series!

Smooth wooden shapes, halla with rounded horns, wolves with no teeth, owls with notches for feathers - each lovingly carved by a father’s hands. The same hands that bend wood into aravels and form branches into staves. The same hands that swing her in circles while her hair dances against her cheeks.

But there is no wind here.

A lullaby, at once comforting and foreign. Words she doesn’t understand, but from a mother’s lips she knows they mean love and family and safety. Mother is magic, and she hopes she will be too, so she can say the old words. Words that conjure fires for cooking, repair scraped knees, create gusts to help aravels over rocky terrain.

But there is no wind here.

Brother and sister, both younger than she, run along behind her in a meadow holding only the clan. Laughter spills from them, and the other children, as she hoists the handmade kite ever higher. It spins and dives through the clear blue sky, looking as limitless as they feel. Children with their lives ahead of them, floating on a breeze just like the paper they hold to a string.

But there is no wind here.

Happy to go into the city with Father, to watch him earn more than callouses from the things he makes. She’s never been inside one before. It’s loud and lonely and holding his hand is the only thing she can focus on as her eyes dart from building to market stall to the faces of the people he calls shemlen. Quicklings, and they move like it, never standing still. They look unkind as they pass the stall filled with goods from the clan. A man picks up, looks over, and drops a carefully engraved flute. “Nice, but I don’t buy from knife ears.” The words shouldn’t have been bad - still they blow her down.

But there is no wind here.

Young still and free, running through the forest, toes digging into the soil after the deer she had struck. Her first kill by an arrow as swift as she was. Mother said, “Even without magic, you’re a marvel. Show them what you can do.” And she does. Curls flutter behind her as she tracks her prey with pride.

But there is no wind here.

They sit in silence under the aravel’s awning, sobbing and stinging as clanmates buzz around. “What can we do?” “Can we help?” “I’m so terribly sorry.” Until Grandmother, through tears, begs them to leave. They huddle around the body, in candlelight, and pray to Falon’Din for Mother’s safe passage into the beyond. Her skin is cold and her face frozen in surprise. Her hand clutches a belt. Grandmother says it holds powerful magic and is very old. She doesn’t want to touch it. The candles blow out, one by one.

But there is no wind here.

Days of practice, of arrows in targets and arrows in animals. Nights in taverns, drinking ale made by shems. The small throwing knife behind her ear in case one of them tries to get handsy, tries to get violent. No mark is too big or small for her to hit, even at this level of inebriation. A woman smiles from across the bar, comes to talk, promises a way to forget. Hand in hand they walk down alleyways. The night air is cool on her booze-muddled flesh.

But there is no wind here.

The sky is cracked. Her hand is on fire - no, different than that. It’s electric. Angry stares she has grown used to from faces that all look the same. She doesn’t care what they think of her ears or her vallaslin or the history they stole from her. She’s earned it all. But then they want her help, and they sing her name, and they lift her up. She’s in the eye of a tempest that they want her to control.

But there is no wind here.

He’s older and maddening and speaks to her like she’s a child. No vallaslin, but still he calls her da’len. She wants to tell him to shut up, to piss off, that his aid isn’t necessary. But it is, and he’s magnetic, and they’re back at Haven alone. Everything has changed, for both of them, and she changes it again. Lips on lips, and she’s not drunk this time. The pull back against him feels like a wall falling down. She won’t let him unbuild what she’s worked hard to protect. But on this mountain, Ayelet can kiss him.

On this mountain, there should be a gale, whipping the snow around. Then he says it: “Where did you think we were?”

This is the Fade. And there is no wind here.

These are just memories, and there is no wind here.


	2. The Absence of Dislike

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ayelet Lavellan and her arcane adviser are uneasy friends, bickering more than learning from each other. That doesn't mean friends can't be more. After a long night of playing the Great Game in Halamshiral, she said something that pleased Solas. *NSFW*

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is based on a scene from How to Get Away with Murder. It seemed in-character for these two, and I'm not very experienced in writing about sex... so here we are! I hope you enjoy!
> 
> NSFW AHEAD!

“Say it again,” his tongue filled her mouth after the demand, stopping any words she might use to satisfy him.

Solas's thrusts into Inquisitor Ayelet were less measured than usual, she noted, fueled by a sentence spoken outside on the ballroom’s terrace as she begrudgingly took his hand to dance. The younger elf was not complaining about this change of pace. She sucked his tongue with kiss-swollen lips, giggled when his moan turned back to pleading. Three words had undone him.

“Stop,” her laughter rang off the gold-plated walls of her room in the Winter Palace; Solas had said she looked as if she belonged here, undressed her with reverence. She turned her head away to let some cool air into her lungs. The mage ran tongue and lips over her jaw, onto her clavicle, unperturbed by her lack of answer. She had already said it, he already knew it.

He pulled himself out of her, hovered over her body, teased her with the promise of another chance to be filled by him. When Ayelet dug her nails into his backside, trying to push him down to meet her, he resisted with unexpected strength. Flared nostrils huffed her disapproval.

Solas stoked fingers through her curls, satisfied with her need of him. “Please?” A need he knew to be more than physical now.

One weighted sigh later and Ayelet inclined her face to kiss him, he was eager to accept. When she released her hold on his bottom lip, her favorite of the two, she said it : “I like you.”

His smile exposed teeth rarely seen, pronounced canines that made him look more wolf than man. He sunk those teeth into her neck and returned himself to her; there was no ceremony in it, only desire as one hand lifted her ass off the bed, allowing him to reach new places inside her.

“Again,” he murmured against her neck. His breath was hot on the places his mouth had touched. Ayelet thought to deny him, to play another game, but when he ran his tongue up the blade of her ear, she couldn't. Wouldn't.

“I like you.”


	3. Bruises

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ayelet treats Solas’s wound after battle.

Quick hands worked between the opened pack and the back of his shirt before the order came. “Off with it, then.” It was soft - concerned even - but it was an order nonetheless. The wool tunic was shrugged off in the gently pulsing light of a few orbs he’d placed earlier, lit by his magic and sustained by his will. Solas laid on the fur-lined bedroll to give Ayelet space to work. He watched her from the crook of his elbow.

She didn’t flinch at the bruising that mottled the skin of his back, and if she worried over the way the red templar had bashed him from behind with a shield, there was no trace of it on Ayelet’s face. She produced a green bottle containing a viscous liquid of the same color. After warming it between her hands, she spread it over the purpling flesh. The steady touch felt like a scrape from a dull knife; Solas hissed and Ayelet chewed her lip, the practiced composure falling from her eyes. She apologized, eased the pressure, and tried to distract him with small talk. The sharp pain continued while she massaged the potion into the battered skin. He had felt worse before, and he would no doubt feel it again. But it was new to feel pain at her hands.

“You’ll be good as new by morning.” Ayelet’s smile was apologetic. “Are you feeling better?”

Solas nodded, taking her hand. “Ma serannas. Is there anything I can do for you?”

“No, vhenan, just a few scratches this time.” She kicked off her boots and laid down next to him, careful not to bump any sensitive parts. The tent darkened. “I’ll keep better watch behind you from now on. Get some sleep.”

With Yel between his arms and a tingling ache in his back, Solas heeded her command once more.


	4. Ar Lath Ma

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A quiet moment leads to a weighty revelation.

Solas’s hand absently stroked through Ayelet’s curls, her head cradled in his lap as she flipped through a book called Practical Alchemical Solutions: Advanced. She responded with a slow hum, crossing an ankle over her raised knee.

Propped against fine Antivan silk pillows at the head of her bed, the mage read On Silver Cords. He wanted to better control his experiences in the Fade; Ayelet thought it was absurd, seeking more power than his skills as a Dreamer allowed. He was always making connections, observations, or musings about the Veil or the Fade. At times it seemed he was singular in his curiosity.

There were exceptions, of course: Solas perked his ears at Sera’s talk of radicalism, asked detailed questions when Dorian used an interesting magical technique, made an effort to comfort the Iron Bull as he left the Qun behind.

The biggest exception was Ayelet herself. There was a time when his questioning about her clan, her past, or her motivations changed from accusatory and cynical to patient, thoughtful, tender. His touch used to be graceless and rough. Now it was delicate, and he never missed an opportunity for casual connection.

Moments like this one, warm in her room on a winter’s day, the Inquisitor was reminded that Solas cared for things outside the Fade and its mysteries.

Ayelet snorted. “This healing tonic uses embrium instead of vandal aria? The aria would be far more beneficial, and you can use it after it’s been dried - much easier to travel with, though it would throw the texture off a bit.”

At his silence, her eyes wandered from the page to the slow smile spreading from the corner of his lips.

“What?”

“Nothing, ma’isalathe.” His fingers delved a little deeper to massage her scalp.

“You’re laughing at me for caring about herbology.”

“On the contrary.” He didn’t look up from his reading, but his charged pause was enough to keep Yel’s attention. “Your passion towards vandal aria is why I love you.”

She chuckled quietly, turning a page. “You don’t mean that.” Her heart had been screaming vhenan for weeks when she so much as looked in his direction. She wanted him to mean it.

“Of course I do.” Fingers fluttered from her hair to the shell of her ear to her cheek. The touch was warm. Her heart raced.

Their relationship, a secret for so long, had been open and under scrutiny for a month or so. One change after another… it was so unlike them.

With a heavy sigh, Ayelet started to tease him. “If you meant it, you’d say it in-”

“Ar lath ma, Yel.” The book was placed on the bed. Solas’s smile returned, watching and waiting for her reaction. “Despite how frequently you mention your favorite plant.”

How had they gotten here? It seemed like yesterday she had told him just where and how far he could shove his staff if he insulted her culture one more time, a time when he flared his nostrils each time she walked into whatever room he occupied. And now, she was sitting with her head in his lap, about to say…

“Solas - vhenan - ar lath ma.” Ayelet propped herself on an elbow, green eyes glowing at the relief, the excitement, of finally being able to tell him what he had come to mean to her.

He pressed a kiss to her forehead before tilting her chin up with a cupped hand. Ayelet didn’t give him a chance to make another first move. She pulled him down by his collar, catching his lips in a soft, lingering kiss. Both elves were flushed from nerves when they parted.

With her forehead still resting on his, Yel’s voice was huskier than usual. “If you’re quite finished distracting me, I’ve more corrections to make in this shemlen’s mockery of alchemy.”

“As you wish.” Another pause. Another deep breath shared. “Vhenan.”


	5. Cider

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A five sentence fic prompt. Short and fluffy.

Visible breath and a reddened round nose, cheeks that held a smile as she paused her work to take the stone mug from him. Solas made sure the drink held its proper temperature from the kitchen to his heart waiting in Skyhold’s garden; she was forever cold, but her herbalist’s curiosity rarely slept. Early winter’s chill melted away as Ayelet sipped the warm spiced cider, leaned into his side despite prying eyes from those toiling about the courtyard.

“Better, ma’isalathe?”

She nodded and hummed her thanks, stretching to plant an apple-scented kiss on his cheek and leaving more than his hands warm.


	6. The Dread Wolf's Defeat

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Post-Trespasser, Ayelet and Solas agree to work together towards their separate goals. The Sentinels are not happy about that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> “The only thing that ever defeated Alexander the Great was Hephaestion’s thighs”
> 
> This quote inspired this little drabble. It's just for fun and I was egged on a bit on tumblr.

Reading through her mail had made Ayelet uncharacteristically late to what was hopefully the last meeting they’d have in this place for a long time. The sentinels were polite enough, but they bristled at being joined by even more elves outside their own ranks. She knew they talked about her. About her relationship with their commander, such as it was. There were many reasons to want to be separate from them for a while.

Briala was standing outside the room they gathered in for meetings, her back flush with the wall and a smirk on her lips.

“Lady Briala, what a-”

She raised a finger to her lips and nodded for Ayelet to come closer and listen. Two voices - Solas and Abelas? - were going back and forth, both just holding back anger.

“This is no longer about Our People, Fen'Harel. You’ve promised too much to your shemlen lover.” Heat rushed to Ayelet’s face. How dare he? Briala’s sudden grasp on her arm was the only thing that kept her from rushing inside.

Solas’s voice was cooler, but the edge was still there. “With the people Ladies Ayelet and Briala offer, we now have the resources to see this through. We will no longer be spread so thin. And they bring a great asset in Warden Surana.”

“Do not pretend this is about resources. Do you know what they- no, what we think of you?” A pause. Oh, to have seen Solas’s face. He knew what they said and she knew it too. “The only thing to have ever defeated the Dread Wolf is Ayelet Lavellan’s thighs.”

The few other sentinels in the room murmured, in agreement or feigned confusion Ayelet didn’t know. Briala’s grip tightened.

Solas sighed. “Are you quite finished, Abelas?”

“For now. Still, I beg you to reconsider, lethallin.”

“If you dislike Lady Ayelet so, you’re free to leave.” The chatter from the ancient elves bubbled loudly inside the room. He would trade them for her? “No? Then make no more mention of her thighs.”

Briala unclenched Ayelet’s arm, the same amusement from before filling her eyes. This was funny to her. Ayelet cleared her throat and pushed into the room, fury riding too high to mask. “Good afternoon, lethallen. Shall we get on with this? Wouldn’t want my thighs to cause any more distraction.”


	7. I've Waited for this Moment for a Long TIme

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Post-Trespasser Fluff. The Arlathvhen holds many new experiences for Fen'Harel but this small one seems to stand out from the rest.

They ran into the forest like giggling children, leaving behind the noise and bustle that accompanied dozens of clans gathered in one space. Branches rushed past them as Ayelet tugged Solas along by his hand; he matched her pace as she guided him between the trees, but only just barely. Finally, they came to a clearing she remembered from the last time she was here. Ten years ago, she was twenty-five years old and a very different person. The Brecilian Forest hadn’t changed much though, and the Arlathvhen still felt like a bigger version of family.

Laughing and breathless from the run, Ayelet was overwhelmed by the push against the tree, the hand on her hips, Solas’s lips on her own. Hungry, as always, but so was she. A squeeze at her hip told her he wanted more, but that wasn’t why they came here. A palm to his chest slowed him down until he pulled away. A stray sunbeam winking through leaves above them highlighted the disappointment knitting his brows.

“You’re getting distracted.”

“Easily achieved around you, ma’isalathe.”

Ayelet rolled her eyes. “Do you still have them?” The scent of cinnamon and sweet cream surrounded them. He hadn’t dropped their cargo.

Solas reached into the small bag that hung across his body from shoulder to hip and delivered the wrapped delicacies. Two cinnamon-covered, halla cream-filled puffs of fried chewy bread - da’enaste, little favors. Her mouth already remembered the taste, but she hadn’t had Dalish made da’enaste in years.

“They don’t look like much but they’re worth it.” She plucked one from his hand, the surface giving way just slightly. “Better than any Orlesian cake, honestly. I’ve waited for this moment for a long time.”

He eyed the treat left on the cloth in his hand, matching her smile. “That is… high praise, Yel. We’ll see if it is deserved.”

They bit into the da’enaste at the same time. The sweet tang of halla cream hit her tongue and Ayelet felt as if she had been rushed back in time. Warm memories around fires with her clan, nibbling the rare dessert at her mother’s side as they lazily strummed soft tunes on their harps while the others laughed and sang and danced. How her grandmother scolded her for staying out hunting too long after dark, but still scooped a fresh da’enaste from the oil and dusted it with cinnamon just for her. Many other times the familiar taste made her feel comforted and loved.

Solas closed his eyes and popped the other half of the sweet into his mouth, chewing thoughtfully. Ayelet finished hers too, settling back against the tree to watch him savor the last bite.

“Ma’isalathe, those are very good. Why did we only bring two?” The light danced on his freckles and his hand was still resting just below her waist. Cinnamon hid in the corners of his smile and she figured her lips shared the same secret.

She draped her arm over his shoulder to bring him down for another kiss, the taste of her memories on his tongue. The bad ones were fading quickly. Here, in a shaded clearing in the Brecilian, a new memory was being made- one of love, contentment, and forgiveness.


	8. Glory Paid to Ashes Comes Too Late

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Angst. Solas laments his love before she has a chance to realize her fate was sealed from the moment she touched his orb.

Green, everywhere. The grass, the trees, the vines that climbed them. The mark on her left hand. Her eyes. And she was dying.

She didn’t know that. A high, melodic laugh, more musical than the magic under his skin, rang through the forest. Her face flushed from climbing, climbing, climbing through the trees till she was waiting in the canopy. She didn’t know she was dying, but he did.

Months? Years? Decades? How long until she would be buried under a mound like those on the ground below them, covered by roots and time and legend? These souls were barely remembered; she couldn’t even pronounce the names of some of them. Still, she had cried on their first night in the Emerald Graves.

There was little he could do now. His fate was hers and they walked it together. They walked it alone. Both of them: infamous, heretical, troublemakers. Both of them with one foot in the grave.

She pulled him up to her perch, high enough to see their camp through the trees. She laced her fingers through his and he could feel the pulse of blood in her wrist. She was so alive.

Would anyone be able to describe her properly at her funeral? Could they tell the audience about the way she smiled when she was sad, or the stack of unfinished books by her bedside, or her drunken hiccups, or her fierce loyalty, or her…

He took note of all he could, of all the things the world would not remember about her. She deserved to be remembered this way. She was dying, but he would remember. She was dying, but he would never forget.


End file.
